


The Path

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fingering, Shame, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:46:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only a wicked girl would allow her father to use her so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Path

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Le Chemin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065726) by [excusethedisorder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/excusethedisorder/pseuds/excusethedisorder)



> Written for the asoiaf kink meme, for the prompt: _Anything where he gets to strip her and she enjoys it despite her shame. Part of her knows it's not proper behavior for a father but she can't overcome his influence or admit that maybe she doesn't want to._

“Have you given any thought to what comes after the wedding?” 

Alayne feels her cheeks flush, something that she can’t entirely blame on the wine (a poor vintage but one that suits their purposes more than enough, chasing away the cold that the fires cannot). Petyr has a way of saying things, of looking at her, that makes her fidget in place, feeling exposed and thrilled in equal measure. 

“I’ve already been married, father.” She knows it’s dangerous to say such things—Alayne has never been married, that’s Sansa Stark, long since dead, a girl whose skin has gotten easier to shed but who still lingers at the edges of her mind. Petyr looks at her with a bit of disappointment evident in the curve of his lips and Alayne starts to worry at the embroidery of her skirt. 

“Wedded, not bedded,” he says, to which she can only nod. She takes a sip of her wine, looking for something to do, and cautiously meets her eyes. His face is as flushed as hers, his eyes slightly clouded with something other than drink. That’s when she first realizes his intent. He’s still more skilled than she is, but she’s not entirely hopeless. 

Petyr finishes his glass and wipes the last bit of wine from his lips, pulling them up into a soft smile. It goes right to her core, spreading through her body in a warm wave. She can feel her heart rate increase but she manages to keep her face composed, taking careful note of every gesture he makes. If she can catalog and store this information, focus on it and only it, then she can ignore her baser reactions. 

He closes the distance between them, stopping within arms reach of her and looking her up in down. Taking note of her as she does him, that knowing smile never leaving his face. “You don’t have a mother to teach you such things, but I cannot consider your education complete if this is overlooked. Now can I Alayne?”

Her mouth is dry. She shakes her head and notes the way his eyes flash. The room is suddenly far too hot, even with the chill of winter pressing all around. 

“Of course, the bedding itself will be a hurried affair,” he starts, as he takes the glass from her hand. She misses it and not just because of the wine. As delicate as it is, having a grip on it made her feel grounded. He’s looking at her intently and she wills herself to meet his eyes. 

“But every time after that, Harrold will take his time.” Petyr reaches out and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers grazing her cheek. She sucks in a breath and scolds herself at her reaction; it’s simply not proper. 

“At least I hope he will,” he continues, a wicked gleam in his eyes. He grips her waist and slowly turns her in place. She can see the two of them reflected in the mirror that rests above the fireplace mantle. “Such a sight shouldn’t be rushed.”

Alayne feels his fingers beginning to undo the laces of her bodice and gasps a bit too loudly. Petyr stops his movements but leaves his hands where they were—one at her hip, holding her in place, the other in the middle of her back, his fingers lightly resting against her shift, the touch burning through the thin fabric. 

“You mustn’t,” he says, his voice stern and cool yet melodic. It’s his teacher’s voice, the voice that he uses to coax her down this path. Alayne knows that she shouldn’t wish to willingly follow, that there lies a line that must not be crossed, but she can’t help the slight thrill that courses through her at the thought.

“It’s fine to be shy, sweetling. Desirable, in fact. But don’t appear too put off. Lean into his touch as you blush and demur.” Petyr uses his hand on her hip to guide her against him. She can feel his heart beating into her back and knows that there is more to this than just a lesson. She knows that not all fathers take such a hand, that there is something lurking beneath his movements. She glances to ensure that the door is locked. 

His hand leaves her hip and soon she feels the laces slipping away, until it’s truly loose. He places her hands on her collarbone, just under the sleeves of the dress—fine blue silk, a gift from him, he so loves to spoil her—and eases it aside until it falls at her waist. 

She’s grateful for her shift, though the thin fabric leaves little to the imagination. Alayne raises one hand across her chest, gripping his hand and covering her breasts. In the mirror she catches a glimpse of herself—cheeks beet red, eyes shining—and him. He’s looking down her body, at where their hands are joined, his mouth open just slightly. 

“I think I know,” she whispers, eyes not leaving the mirror. She can see that invisible line just ahead, knows it is something that once crossed will alter everything forever. She knows that this is not what fathers do, that there is something in this that should forever leave a bitter taste in her mouth. 

Knows, and yet doesn’t let go of his hand. He’s gripping her tightly, his stance one of power, yet she knows that if she were to push him away he would crumble in an instance. His posture is bowed, his eyes glazed as though he’s drunk on her. 

She decides to continue down her path (and knows that, in the morning, she’ll tell herself that his influence had nothing to do with it). 

She releases his hand and that seems to rouse him. Petyr threads his fingers under her shift and slowly it joins her gown in being pooled at her waist.

He seems to stifle a groan in her throat. Alayne chides herself for not being able to meet her own eyes in the mirror, but she’s not quite prepared for what she suspects will stare back at her. Instead she watches him, notes the way his eyes settle on her breasts though his hands can’t seem to. They’re trembling slightly, just as she is. She knows that on his part it’s excitement; she’s less clear on herself. 

Even in this room, with only him in attendance, she can’t help but feel completely exposed. The flush in her cheeks has covered her entire body, her stomach is twisted, and she wishes more than ever that she could have her wine back. Her throat is dry and she’s not quite sure what to do. She remembers when Sansa Stark was stripped in court and the shame of that earlier event still burns in Alayne’s memory. This is slightly different though—in this case, the shame is twined with enjoyment, and she knows that to kill one would surely kill the other. 

“You’re beautiful,” Petyr says, and she wonders if he knows he’s speaking. He seems as if he has forgotten his role. While she waits she watches him, her heart pounding in her chest, her flesh pricking despite the warmth running through her. 

Petyr’s fingers tickle her flesh as he runs them up her side. His hand is still shaky when he reaches out to cup one breast. Alayne stiffens and almost instinctively leans into his touch. _It’s not your fault. He led you here._ And yet when she finally forces herself to meet her eyes in the mirror, nothing on her face seems conflicted. 

“Good,” Petyr says, his teacher’s tone returning. She wonders how he can so easily regain control, suspects it’s harder than he makes it look. She can’t hold her gaze any longer. 

“Let him admire you,” he says, his other hand tracing a path down her side, where the fabric of her gown hangs loose. He threads his fingers against her hipbone and pushes it down, and she bites her lip so hard she’s afraid she’ll drawn blood. He stops his hand and she’s afraid she might scream. 

“Of course,” he breathes in her ear. His lips graze her throat. “It would be best if you ask him too.”

A sudden jolt of fear runs through her. It’s one thing to allow this to be done, and quite another to put voice to a desire she’s not entirely comfortable with. It’s horrid and wrong and everything about this is filthy—she’s not so far gone as to not recognize that, to not realize how much Sansa Stark would dislike Alayne Stone. But her tongue is heavy in her throat, his hands like fire against her skin, and the shame that she feels only seems to heighten every move he makes. 

She laughs slightly, the coquettish laugh that’s she’s grown more and more comfortable with, “He’ll already know, won’t he?”

Petyr takes the hand that had been holding her breast and cups her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes outside of the mirror. “Sometimes men like to hear it. You must know that, sweetling.” 

She’s grateful that she doesn’t have to look at herself when she half-whispers, “Please.” She returns his hand to her breast and gasps as his fingers graze her peaked nipple, as his other hand pushes dress, shift, and smallclothes away from her in one practiced movement. 

She’s still pressed against his body and she can feel how hard he is through his clothes, and as she goes to cover herself (a reflex she can’t avoid) she can’t help but feel some sort of pride in this, in causing him to react in such a way. She wonders if the path she has allowed him to lead her down is not only dangerous for her, if perhaps he too has grown lost and careless. 

Petyr grips both of her wrists and holds them at her sides. He lays a kiss on her neck, right over her pulse, and then rests his lips there. They stay like this for some time, and she thinks he can only be attempting to calm himself. The he releases one hand and moves to rub her stomach before working his way further down. 

“Let him take you in,” he continues. “No need to rush things.” She knows where his hand is headed, but she can’t bring herself to try and push it away. 

His fingers stop at the curls between her legs, as if he’s working up the courage. When he finally moves them forward she spreads her legs slightly, allowing him.

She’s wetter than she would have imagined. She stares down at the floor, but she can feel his slight smile pressed against her skin and when he runs his fingers over her slit she shutters and arches her back against him. 

“Make sure you are this wet when he comes to you.” He begins to rub the side of her clit with his clever fingers and she’s grateful for his body, afraid that if he were to leave her she would fall to the ground. 

“Father…” she starts and he claims her mouth, as if he doesn’t want to hear the word. 

It’s deeper than any kiss before, the press of his mouth and tongue mixed with the tease of his fingers making her head swim. She pushes aside every rational thought in her head, focusing only on the press of his body all around her.

When they pull apart he faces forward and she can’t help meeting his gaze in the mirror. 

“Let him take his time. He’ll ease into it, then gradually pick up speed.” As he speaks his fingers increase their movement. He pushes a bit further back, teasing her entrance as he lightly squeezes her breast and she wants nothing more then for him to slip inside, to fill her fully the way she sometimes does, to complete the wickedness of this path. 

But he seems intent on playing with her, dangling her right over the edge of her climax, and for as far as she’s gone she can’t bring herself to urge him on with words. Instead she just presses hard against him, allowing him to rub the budge in his breeches against her bare backside, soft pants escaping her. 

“He’ll enjoy it. Such a wicked girl for a wife.”

“I’m not wicked,” she says, surprising herself than she can find these words in a time like this. They feel strange in her mouth, as if it’s an odd fit, a dress that she’d cast aside long ago and now since outgrown. 

Petyr laughs and slowly slides a finger inside her. She feels as though her heart explodes. 

“It’s lucky you’re such a good liar. But never forget, I know.” He picks up his pace, giving her exactly the amount of friction she needs. “Only a wicked girl would allow her father to use her so."

She tries hard to stifle her cries as she comes, but fails to remain completely silent. Petyr pulls away in an instant and a feeling of emptiness fills her that she struggles to push down. 

He’s still hard, but it seems he wishes to end this evening with the upper hand. He looks strangely calm and controlled, while a glance in the mirror proves her to be a ruined mess. His hand is glistening with her wetness and she watches as he brings it to his mouth, sucking it clean. She can’t look at herself for long and dresses quickly, hands trembling. 

When she makes it back to her rooms she calls for a bath.

(Later that evening, with no eyes on her, she replays the events of the day and finds her pleasure once more.)


End file.
